


Flies in a Web

by AidenFlame



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (1998), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Cheating, F/M, Falling In Love, Love, rose tinted view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:23:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidenFlame/pseuds/AidenFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They shouldn't<br/>But they can't help themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flies in a Web

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about 5 years ago for an A Level English Final

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the clearing.   
They had set off about mid-morning, but the sun was scorching, and horses and riders had tired quickly, so he had suggested they instead took a slow, amiable walk through the forest, lest she catch the sun and be burned, rather then head directly to their usual meeting place.   
The forest had been so calm, so magical. The droplets from the previous night’s rain still lingered on the emerald leaves. They glistened, like diamonds and stars, shimmering as they caught the filtered streams of light that managed to slip through the protecting canopy of trees which sheltered the liquid treasures from the searing sun. Even Lancelot had been inspired by their surroundings, and had spoken of faerie folk; a few lines of rhyme about how she must be cautious, for if The Elvin King himself were to spy her in this enchanted place, he may mistake her for one of his own, and take her for himself- for she showed more beauty then any mortal woman before her.   
That was what attracted her to Lancelot- other then his obvious charm, looks and alluring smile. Unlike her husband- Arthur- the knight was romantic, and poetic by nature, sincere, and unabashed to display it. She had a secret collection of poems and letters he had composed for her- hidden- back in her private chambers at the castle in Camelot. It was risky she knew, to keep these. If Arthur were to discover her secret relationship with his trusted knight, it would cost both their lives. But still she clung to them, if only to prove to herself that he was real. That someone was finally able to give her the love she had craved for so long from her husband.

Lancelot made her feel safe, comfortable, relaxed. She could be her true self around him, not Queen Guinevere. With her husband, it was like acting a role- Queen Guinevere was not her, but a character she was forced to play. Guinevere smiled up at him, as she was gently pulled into his arms as they lay side-by-side on the silky grass. Their eyes met, and Guinevere felt a warm glow rise in her chest, and spread throughout her body, making her blush suddenly. With Lancelot she did not have to pretend. She was who she wanted to be; herself.

 

Lancelot gazed at the young women who lay next to him. Her eyes were closed, and a half smile played about her lips. He recalled the simple poem he had voiced to her, hours previous when they had sought refuge from the blistering heat of the sun in the bewitching forest. It was not one of his better compositions, but the crimson blush that rose on her usually pale cheeks had assured him that she had appreciated the gesture, at the very least.   
He smiled, his eyes taking in all of her, committing her to memory. Her hair, usually confined to twin buns coiled tightly and painfully atop her head, was today loose, and free; a honey river flowing to her waist, twisting around clover, like gold-tinted tributaries, as she lay amongst the grass and blossom. Her gown- as always- was exquisite, designed specifically for her, the grass-green silk perfectly complimenting her pale skin and flaxen hair. His eyes trailed down her body, noticing the intricate appliqué patterns, the slightest crease in material. He noted that she had at some point removed her slippers, and they lay beside her, so her delicate toes could feel the grass between them.   
He had never seen someone so beautiful in his life.   
His eyes spied a delicate golden clasp that fastened her dress, and his stomach churned. He adverted his eyes. He was reminded of who she was. What she was. The Queen of Camelot. Her husband the King, whom he was sworn to serve. Even if he could marry her, he could never afford to keep her in the luxury she was accustomed to. He could never afford to clad her with gold.   
He shook his head. Marry her? Him, a knight, marry Queen Guinevere? The King would have him put to death for such treasonous thoughts!   
He sighed, his eyes drawn back towards her perfect face. Yet how could he stop these thoughts, which came from his heart?

He glanced back along her body, and noticed goose-pimples forming along her arms and neck. He reached out and drew her closer to him, intending only to keep her from catching a chill, but somehow unintentionally positioned her so she was almost on top of him. He turned to apologise, and found her face inches away from his own. Their eyes met and he felt his words catch in his throat. He had never been this close to her before. He had never before noticed the way her eyes glittered and shone, like amber caught in sunlight. They were more beautiful then any gemstone or crystal he had ever seen. She truly was the most enchanting, beautiful, magnificent women he had ever laid eyes on... Those eyes... he could look into them all day...into her very soul. Those lips. So naturally red. In his mind, he tried to find something to compare them to. Poppies, Rubies, Roses, Garnets... her beauty dulled and shadowed them all in comparison. He noticed the pink blush rise in her cheeks, and felt a fire burn in his chest, his whole body tingle. To kiss those lips... he would give everything- give all his worldly worth, give his whole heart- to her, for one kiss upon her perfect lips. His head tilted, as if of its own accord. He leaned forward, and felt her do the same. His mind was screaming at him to stop, to think about the treason he was about to commit.   
But his heart was commanding him. Lancelot felt as though he was no longer connected to his body, he could feel the blood pulsing along his veins, his heart beating at an unnatural –almost alarming- rate, heat spreading through his entire body.   
She was moving closer, her eyes now closed. It felt as if time itself had slowed down. The birds, who had before been singing their melodies loud and clear, now seemed muffled, and distant. His vision too was fading, and Lancelot vaguely realised his eyes were closing. He had never felt so many emotions at once. He was longing for her, he desired her, yet he was terrified. He felt fear, love, lust, elated, excited, nervous. He felt as though his body was on fire, yet frozen in ice. He felt alive.    
Their lips touched for the first time.

She felt as though she was in a dream. They were now on the return ride, her cream-white mule ambling steadily and proudly alongside Lancelot’s mahogany Welsh Cob, but her mind was back in the clearing. Where they had talked. Where they had laughed. Where they had lain beside each other. Where they had kissed...

Guinevere blushed again, the hot crimson wave rising readily, as always, to her pale cheeks. They had kissed. Part of her was terrified; if her husband were ever to discover this highest betrayal, they would both be burned at the stake for sure! But in spite of her fear and anguish, she was smiling at the memory, her most precious secret. Arthur had never held her, and kissed her so tenderly as Lancelot had, not even on their wedding night. He was always rough, and swift. Only kissed her in front of his people, as if it was a task he was required to fulfil.

When Lancelot had kissed her, it had felt as if they were the only two people in existence. At that one, brief, wonderful moment, nothing and no-one else was important.   
She stole a quick glance at her companion, who was silently looking dead ahead of him, seemingly concentrating solely on the path. He looked worried, she thought. At once all her good feelings evaporated. The kiss. Of course. Lancelot, being a knight of the round table, would have contact with her husband far more often and frequently then she would. In fact, they were close friends and allies. To him this is more then a betrayal of loyalty to a King, this was a betrayal of kinship and trust. Her heart became a stone in her chest, and a whirlpool of bile filled her stomach. He must regret what happened. He must want to forget it ever occurred. The most perfect, wonderful moment of her life... In her selfish bubble of delirious bliss and ecstasy, she had been oblivious to his inner torment!

Unwilling to let Lancelot see her tears, yet unable to keep them from spilling, she spurred her mule on, breaking pace with Lancelot, and over the yellowing river that separated the enchanting forest from the grassland that bordered the city of Camelot. Once across, she halted so as to let him catch up, but still with her back to him so she could still her flow of tears that persisted to flow and meander down her cheeks. She heard the heavy tread of his horse behind her, and turned to face him, a half-faked smile pinned to her tear stained face. She looked into his azure eyes. The eyes of the man she loved.

 

Lancelot rode steadily, attempting to keep his eyes ahead of him, or into the forest, or downwards at the path, or anywhere, anyplace besides towards _her_. Yet she was the one place they seemed to be constantly drawn to, as if governed by a separate entity then his mind. Her mule walked beside his horse, barely three inches from him. If he so desired, he could reach out and touch her delicate face, or stroke her golden hair... His fingers twitched on the reins, begging, pleading him to allow them just one touch, just a fleeting brush against her pale, petal-soft skin. He held them back, reining in his reckless, yearning heart. Each glance in her direction was a needle in his already bleeding heart; a sword to his soul. That he could not take her, as he so desired her, as his wife. Shame turned his saliva to acid, which burned in his mouth and blistered his stomach. He had done too much already, sinned so terribly, as to force his kiss onto a married woman. The fire of ecstasy and passion, that had ignited as their lips came together, had been abruptly extinguished, and a pit of writhing snakes of horror and guilt filled its place. His face was stoic. Internally; he was sobbing and tearing himself apart, consumed with guilt and sorrow, and the passion and desire he felt for her that he could not truthfully smother.

He heard her mule buck slightly, and looked up, in time to see her ride away from him. Her honey gold hair, which she had braded before leaving the clearing, swung from side to side as she rode. She truly appeared as if she were a faerie princess, rather then a mortal queen. His heart sank further, as he watched her and her cream-white mule bolt away. She must not want to be near him. She must regret it; the most perfect, precious moment of his life. Like it never happened... That kiss... Their kiss.   
He carried on riding at the same steady pace, giving her ample time to cross the river, and ride off to Camelot without a farewell if she so wished, but he noticed she had paused after crossing the river, still mounted, facing the direction of her city- away from him.  

He jumped the river, not willing to make the horse cross though, -he knew it well enough to know its intense dislike of running water- landing heavily, snapping a twig in the process, making Guinevere turn to face him, and at that moment, something inside Lancelot also broke. He took one look at her tear stained face and dismounted. He stepped towards the angel in emerald that was his princess, his queen, and reached out for her. She eagerly slipped off of her mount, and into his waiting arms. He pulled her towards him, and tilted her chin so she was looking upwards, directly into his eyes- so full of devotion and love for her, and her alone. Their lips met, this time both pouring all their love and adoration- projecting it through their eager lips, and into the other- into their hearts, souls and minds, weaving, covering, taking them over completely until they were enveloped in their own, private bubble.

Eventually, regrettably, he broke the kiss, and the pink mist that had blurred his vision and clouded his mind, subsided slightly. They smiled at each other. He helped her re-mount her mule, which had waited patiently during their embrace, turned away as if he knew he should not witness this most private, perfect, treasonous moment.

They did not speak. There was no need. He watched, stood by his own ride, as she rode a little off, then stopped and turned back to face him. Their eyes met once more. His heart jumped, and skipped a beat, as for one wild second he thought she might ride back to him. They waved at each other. She spurred her mule, turned forwards, and rode thought the gates of Camelot. She was gone. Back to her home. Back to her kingdom. Back to her husband. As she should. As she must.           


End file.
